


The Mountain Cat and the Bastard Warrior

by librarian_of_velaris



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Mates, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15144800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarian_of_velaris/pseuds/librarian_of_velaris
Summary: A series surrounding the little moments in Nesta and Cassian's lives that come to define their relationship





	1. The Door on the Left

“Where is he.” 

Rhysand looked towards his mate’s sister, his eyes narrowing, sizing her up. “Why do you care?”

“Where. Is. He.” Nesta said, nearly growling. She hated having to repeat herself. More than that, she hated herself for walking into the living room, for even bothering to come here and ask about him. That male. _That damn_ _Illyrian bastard_. Cauldron, she was better off reading in the library, or sleeping, or better yet, checking in on her sister, who’d only recently started to come out of her room, instead of asking this prick about Cassian. And yet, here she was, asking about—no, demanding—information on _him._

“He just flew in, and he’s up resting in his room. The last thing he needs is to be accosted by you, so I suggest you leave him alone.” 

“I’ll do as I please,” said Nesta, turning on her heels and striding out the door. 

_Leave him alone._ Rhysand’s words echoed in her head. Yes, that would be the smart thing to do. Go back to her room. Roam around Velaris. See her sister. _Something_. She didn’t need to see Cassian, didn’t _want_ to see him, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t in any mood to see her, either. The Illyrian camps always put him in a mood, as though he would snap at any moment if someone—usually Nesta—said the wrong thing. And she loved to say the wrong thing. 

She sighed, settling on resuming the novel she left on her nightstand. Her feet carried her up the stairs, turned right down the hallway, and went to the farthest door on the left, opening it and crossing the threshold. 

Only to bump right into a shirtless Cassian. The bastard was shirtless. In _her_ room. 

Her eyes gleamed with icy, glittering rage as she took one, two steps back. Enough to make her feel taller, in control. She wasn’t some clumsy fae female who happened to stumble into a room by accident; this was _her_ space, and he was invading it. 

And she was pissed off. She didn’t care how tired he was, how moody he might be, she was not going to back down; she wasn’t afraid of the so-called Lord of Bloodshed. He was here, in her room, uninvited. Nesta _knew_ he’d done this on purpose. He wanted to see her squirm, see her out of her comfort zone. But she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Not today. Not ever. She was going to give him a piece of her mind right here and right—

“You…do know you’re supposed to knock before walking into someone’s room, right?” Cassian drawled, turning to face her. 

Nesta didn’t so much as look at the male before uttering a single word. “Out.” 

Cassian turned, stepping away from her and towards the bed, where he fell— _fell_ —onto the mattress. _Bastard._  

Nesta stalked towards the bed, eyes narrowing at the male laying before her. Of course he’d claim her room as his. Of course he would lay on her bed, ruining her sheets with the mud plastered on his wings. He loved playing these idiotic games with her, goading her until she very nearly bit his head off. And he damn well knew how much she despised this, despised _him._ But if he was going to play games, Nesta could play too. If there was one thing she hated more than Cassian, it was losing their little sparring match. 

Meeting his gaze, she expected to see that gleam in his eyes, the one he reserved specifically for her—the hint of a challenge that set her senses on edge, ready to fight back—but found his hazel eyes dull, exhausted. Empty. 

Good. Maybe he wouldn’t want to play, after all. 

Cassian heaved a sigh, grunting as he propped himself up on his arms and sat up, his wings drooping down behind him, the ends falling off the bed and touching the floor. As though the muscles couldn’t—wouldn’t—work. Nesta couldn’t help but stare; she’d never seen the Illyrian so worn out. The male never let his wings drag on the ground—it was dishonorable, he’d told her during one of their few amicable conversations—and so she’d never seen them on the floor, until now.

For his wings to be in this condition…he’d had to have taken some sort of beating. Nesta never knew what went on at the Illyrian camps, didn’t care, really, but for Cassian, a trained warrior, to look like this… 

“Why the long face, Nes?” 

Nesta snapped back to reality, scowling at that nickname. The very nickname he _knew_ she hated, especially coming from him. They weren’t friends, and certainly weren’t allowed nicknames. Not even her sisters had that privilege. “Do _not_ call me that. And there is no long face. I’m fine.”

 “You frowned. You never frown.” 

“I did not—” 

“You did.” 

“I’m not playing these childish games with you right now.”

“Good, because I’m too tired for this, anyway,” said Cassian, “now can you let me be? I don’t need to see your ‘I’m going to kill Cassian’ face while I’m trying to rest, which, if you’ve noticed, is much needed.” 

Nesta moved forward, barely an inch of space between them, narrowing her eyes at the male. “You are in _my_ room. I suggest you leave and stop bothering me.”

He cocked his head to the side and heaved a laugh, and Nesta could feel his breath, warm and minty and intoxicating and it would be so easy to just… _no._ They weren’t friends, weren’t anything to each other. And she would be happy to keep it that way. He was nothing—no one, not to her—and she didn’t need anyone, anyway.

Her gaze hardened—a wall, forged of impenetrable iron—and Cassian glared right back. _Of course the male won’t back down. Idiot._ “No, you’re in _my_ room,” he said, voice bordering on a calm, coursing anger, “which is why I’m here in the first place. Do you really think I’d come into your room and pick a fight with you? You think I want that, that I have time for that right now? I’ve been through enough today. I don’t need you on my ass.”

Nesta paused. He’d take any opportunity to piss her off, to annoy her to no end. To play with her. The simple answer would be yes, of course he took over her room, knowing the reaction he’d get. But the look on his face, the exasperated sighs, the rasp of his voice, they all had her doubting his intentions—or, rather, her assumptions. 

And she absolutely hated that she might be wrong. 

Her head buzzed at the prospect as she raced through the route she took to Cassian’s—no, her—room. Up the stairs. Right. Down the hallway. Left. 

_Bastard._

Nesta backed away from the Illyrian, eyes wide. Any trace of her usual, immortal grace was gone as she stumbled to the door, grasping for the handle. He was right. The bastard was right.

She turned to look at the exhausted male one last time. “I—I’m…sorry,” she said, almost too quietly to hear, and gently closed the door behind her.

She swore as she walked across the hall back to her room. She knew her door was on the right, but her feet…her feet didn’t seem to care as they carried her up the stairs and to the door on the left, to the male she couldn’t stand the sight of, even on a good day.

Locking her door, she settled into the sofa to resume her novel, though the words on the page meant nothing to her, her mind too occupied with the door across from hers and the exhausted male inside. She begged herself not to care, not to notice the empty eyes, the way he snapped at her…but her traitorous mind refused. 

That night, Nesta dreamt of an Illyrian Warrior.       

And cursed herself when she awoke, thinking of Cassian.


	2. The Dream

Everything ached.

Never had a trip to the Illyrian camps been so…exhausting. Tiring, yes. Always tiring. But Cassian had never hurt this much, never felt so drained, as though he’d crumble to ash at the slightest touch. And Nesta…she had come into his room, claiming it as hers, and then just ran. _Ran from him._ He’d never—she’d never—he’d never seen her…was she…flustered? He felt like an absolute ass for snapping at her, but he couldn’t handle her verbal attacks. Their games. What he had seen, had done in the camps had been too much, and with Nesta, he didn’t want to risk saying something he’d regret. Too tired to think any further on the subject, he let his exhaustion take hold, allowing the memories of the past few days to wash over him. 

***

Lord Devlon had given him the usual speech—spewing lie after lie about the condition of the females and warriors, which Cassian quickly discovered was far from the truth. He’d scoured the camp looking for one of the females, to ask about training and their living conditions, but found no one in the training rings, in the tents, anywhere. Maybe they were off in the surrounding forest, training on their own. It was a naïve hope, but…Cassian wished it were true. The sun started to set, and tired from the long day of flying, he headed into the house where he usually stayed.

And found three female Illyrians, hunched over, cleaning the floors, their wings clipped. 

His hazel eyes burned with a rage reserved for the battlefield, his hands curling into fists as he looked at their wings, at their dirt-covered bodies, at females forced onto their knees to do the grunt work. But those wings…he had given Lord Devlon one order to follow. _One,_ and knew the consequences if he disobeyed _._ Devlon should have been smart enough to know Cassian didn’t bluff, and yet, here were these females, their innate desire to fly taken away. Forcibly.

And Lord Devlon, and the rest of the Illyrian camp, would pay for it.

Unclenching his fists and smiling as best he could, Cassian walked up to the females, kneeling down and grabbing a cloth from the nearby cleaning supplies. “Here, let me help,” he said.

“Cass—Cassian,” said the nearest female, pushing her dark hair out of her face, “it—it’s okay, we can manage.” 

The other females looked to Cassian, waiting for his response.

“Let me help. Please. And I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

They scrubbed and scrubbed until the floors were spotless, the rags covered in dirt and grime, and told him of the abuses they’d suffered at the hands of the camp. No, they had not trained, the males claiming that they had to finish their chores first, and by the time those were done, it was too late to teach them much of anything. Yes, their wings were clipped, being told that it was for their safety. If they tried to run away, one of the females said, they were held down, thrashing about, while they took away their wings. No, none of the other females had been training, except for a small group in secret, led by someone named Emerie.   

It took every ounce of Cassian’s power to refuse the urge to stalk to Devlon’s lodgings and tear him to pieces, but he sat there, listening and cleaning, hearing the horrors of the camp. And when they finished, he promised them that things would change. Soon. 

Rhys would kill him for what he was about to do. He knew it, and didn’t care, as he stalked over to Devlon’s house, pounding on the door. He didn’t care if he woke the bastard up. He deserved it. 

Devlon frowned as he took in Cassian’s figure at the door. “What do you want.” 

Cassian’s expression turned lethal. “When was the last time you trained the females at the camp?” 

“Every day, after chores,” replied Devlon.

“Do you now,” Cassian drawled, “and what about their wings? You’re teaching them to fly in formation, too, right? That was part of the agreement, you know.”

“We haven’t clipped wings in years. Ever since that order from the High Lord,” he spat. 

Cassian’s eyes narrowed, sizing up his opponent, “so why, then, do I hear that females are having their wings clipped? And that that they’re not training, to boot.”

“They must be lying or visiting from another camp.”  

_Lies, lies, lies._

“See, Devlon,” said Cassian, unfurling his wings and tapping his siphons, letting power roil up inside of him, “I think you and I need to have a chat. I’ve talked to some females, and I know that you haven’t been obeying the High Lord’s orders. Now you can either agree to make some changes right now, so on my next visit I see females in the ring and flying, or I can go to Rhysand, and you can deal with his wrath.”

Devlon didn’t back down from the Illyrian as he commanded, “get the hell out of my camp, bastard.”

“Have it your way. You’ll be hearing from Rhysand soon, then,” Cassian said, his voice rough with anger, as he stepped off the porch and stalked back to his home for the night. Tomorrow—he’d go home tomorrow and let Rhys deal with them. _Better to avoid violence,_ he thought. 

Until four Illyrian males blocked the way into his house.

Cassian eyed them closely, noting their armor and weapons, the siphons on each hand blazing. _Shit._  

“Get back to your tents,” he said abruptly, “I’m in no mood to train with you right now, it’s late.”

“Oh, we’re not here to train, _Cassian,_ ” one of the males said, taking a step forward, “we’re here about Devlon.”

“We heard the whole thing,” another male said, his voice dripping with disdain, “and we’d rather keep things the same around here. We can’t let you change that.” 

The other males nodded in agreement.

And then struck. 

Cassian dodged the first blow, only to be nailed in the chin by an uppercut from the male on his left. No weapons. He’d decided on no weapons, he couldn’t kill these males. Just beat them. _Win._ Or they’d likely kill him. The male behind him went to put his hands around Cassian’s neck, but Cassian was faster, using his body weight to throw the male over him, landing with a _thud_ on the ground. _One down, three to go._

The male directly to his right went in to sweep his leg, and Cassian was on the floor, the male on top of him, beating on his cheeks, forehead, trying to land any blow he could. He got in a few punches as Cassian drew upon his strength, waiting until the male was off balance and threw him up, up and away from Cassian. Cassian stood up, grabbing the male by his armor, and tossed him aside.

The two remaining males stalked towards him, but Cassian’s attention was not on the males ready to draw blood. Instead, his gaze was on that of a female in Illyrian leathers, her expression ruthless, deadly. _Nesta._  

Nesta took down the remaining males in mere seconds, eventually running to a bloody and beaten Cassian, helping him up and into the house. Nesta. Nesta was _here,_ fighting for—no, with—him.

“Rest, and I’ll be back soon,” she said softly, softer than he had ever heard her speak to anyone.

And then she vanished into thin air. 

***

Cassian awoke with a jolt to a knock on the door, the memories of his dream still swirling in his head. Had he just…had he dreamed about _Nesta_? Nesta wasn’t at the camps with him, not last night as he was beaten and bruised—that much was certain. But in this dream, in this version…she was there. And she had _cared_.

“Come in,” he rasped, the exhaustion still claiming his every being. 

And saw Nesta standing on the threshold.


	3. Business as Usual

Nesta stood outside of her door for what seemed like hours. She was a mere three steps from Cassian’s door, and though her mind told her to turn around and go back to her chambers, away from Cassian and the intrusive thoughts he brought, her body remained, as though telling her to stay. To walk those short steps and knock on the door.

And after last night’s dream of those Illyrian camps, of Cassian beaten and bloody and bruised…as much as she tried to, she couldn’t avoid thinking about the male, let alone the exhaustion that marred his features yesterday. Not to mention she hadn’t dreamt since the King of Hybern had forced her into that Cauldron. And to dream of Cassian…

She scowled. It was simply a dream, she told herself, and a fluke at that. It meant nothing, just like those dreams she had of balls and dancing as a child; it wasn’t real, wasn’t _reality._ But it still tugged at something within her, buried deep, drawing her towards Cassian’s room and taking those three steps she tried so hard to resist.

And she knocked on the door. Once, twice.

Cassian had merely said a tired “come in,” and as though commanded by the Cauldron itself, she opened the door and walked in, quietly shutting it behind her. She hadn’t gotten a good view of Cassian before—his wings, sure, but she’d done everything in her power to avoid looking anywhere but the male’s eyes yesterday. But now…as he sat up, in nothing but a pair of sleep pants, she could see purple and blue splotches and red scratches and cuts all across his chest, his arms, his face…why hadn’t she noticed his face before? She’d looked into his eyes, and yet hadn’t bothered to notice that his right eye was black and blue, nor did she even bother to notice the gigantic scratch going down the side of his cheek, down to his neck. And his wings—Cauldron, those wings—they were still drooping and covered with what appeared to be…scratches from a blade? What _happened_ to him? 

“See something you like?” Cassian said as Nesta examined his body, her eyes drifting from wings, to chest, to arms, to face, and back again.

She shook her head. “You should be resting.”

“I might still have been, if someone hadn’t so graciously knocked on my door and woken me up,” replied Cassian, “and since when do you care about my well-being?”

Nesta muttered some curses under her breath. She _didn’t_ care. She _shouldn’t_ care. But looking at Cassian, at the bruises and cuts that tarnished his flawless skin, she couldn’t help but feel concern for the poor bastard. And anger, though she couldn’t place where it came from. Frustrated at the onslaught of new feelings—for Cassian, no less—she forced them down, down into the deepest depths of herself; this would be dealt with later. She let her expression harden as she turned to him to speak, ignoring his ridiculous question. 

“Who did this to you.” 

“It’s not important—it shouldn’t have happened, anyway. I just wasn’t prepared,” he said, wincing at some sort of pain in his left shoulder. 

“Yeah. You should’ve known better.”

“Thanks for the reprimand, _Nes,_ Rhys already gave me that bullshit when I got back. I’m healing though, aren’t I? We’ll be back to business as usual in no time,” Cassian said, giving her a wink. 

Nesta let slip a hint of a smile, her lips curling up before she could will them to stop. Business as usual. She could handle that. Hell, she was _used_ to that. Their little games, their hatred, their rivalry. Just the thought of it had her sighing with relief. No new feelings, no new anything. Just…normalcy. That’s all she wanted.   

But as much as she might try, looking at Cassian, she couldn’t shake the feeling of concern for the male or that pull towards him that had brought her to his room in the first place. Maybe it was guilt, maybe pity for the male that had her mind swimming. But if he were fully healed…it was a ridiculous thought, Nesta realized, but maybe if he were healed she’d stop feeling whatever this was—and she’d do just about anything to make it go away; to make it disappear. Her smile faded, replaced by a hopeful determination, the words _business as usual_ humming through her head as an idea formed. _Business as usual. We’ll be back to that in no time. I just have to…_ “hang on. I’ll be right back,” Nesta said, slipping through the door and walking down the hall. 

*** 

Nesta made her way to Rhysand’s study with a newfound sense of purpose. She would succeed. Things would go back to normal. They _had_ to.

She didn’t so much as knock, flinging open the door to a surprised Rhysand, who was sitting at his desk, staring at a document of some sort. Nesta didn’t care as she stalked towards him, demanding his attention. 

“I need a healing salve,” said Nesta, as her sister’s mate raised his head, eyeing the latest intrusion on his workspace. 

“Usually you’re supposed to knock before entering, right?” he responded, getting a scowl from Nesta. “Why do you need a salve?” 

“I just do.” 

“Tell me why, and I’ll give it to you.”

Nesta considered for a moment. If she so much as alluded to getting it for Cassian, she’d be asked questions she’d rather not answer—especially given she didn’t have the answers herself. But he wouldn’t buy it if she made some excuse for herself…but if it were for one of her sisters— _Elain._ Elain would need a healing salve. 

“It’s for my sister—she cut herself on some of the rose bushes in her garden,” she said effortlessly, letting the lie roll off her tongue. It was small. Believable. He would never deny Elain anything, lest he incur the wrath of his mate and of Azriel, her newfound companion. Sure, he could deny Nesta all he wanted—Nesta could hold her own against him, her sister, and the household, but for gentle, soft Elain, he’d never dare risk upsetting her. 

The High Lord pulled a silver tin out of his desk drawer and tossed it to Nesta. “There. It should be enough for some small pricks.”

Nesta nodded, not giving so much as a thank you as she turned on her heels and sauntered back to Cassian’s room.

***

Healing salve in one hand, she used the other to softly knock on the door before she turned the knob and entered.

Cassian was standing now, looking out his window towards the bustling streets of the City of Starlight. His muscled back was on display, the cuts and bruises worse than she’d seen before and his tattered wings dragged on the floor as he turned around to look at Nesta. If she got her hands on the Fae who did this…she banished the thought as quickly as it had formed, replacing it with her newfound mantra: business as usual.

“Here. Take this,” she said, throwing the tin at Cassian, who caught it with little effort. “It’s a healing salve. You should be better in no time.”

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes alight with surprise at her kind gesture. He slid down into the nearest chair and opened the tin. 

Taking the salve gently in his hands, he started to softly apply the cream to his arms, his face, anywhere that had any sort of remnants of cuts and scratches. It wouldn’t heal the bruises, but…Nesta assumed those would fade quickly, anyway.

When Cassian finished with his arms, he looked up to find Nesta staring right at him. She hadn’t left; in fact, she did the opposite, whether knowing it or not, she had walked closer to Cassian, now only one or two steps away from him. 

“I thought you’d left,” he said, taking more salve and working to reach his back and wings—though he wasn’t having much luck reaching either with the bruises causing him to wince every time he raised his arm. 

Nesta rolled her eyes at his unsuccessful attempts to reach his back. “Give me the salve,” she commanded, “and turn around.”

_And I didn’t leave. Because what if you needed help—like this. The faster you heal, the faster I get a sense of normalcy,_ she wanted to say, though the words felt thick—wrong—on her tongue. So she remained quiet as he handed her the salve and turned around, his back and wings to her. 

She worked quietly, her hands gently placing the cream over his back. Even covered in cuts and bruises, she realized, his skin was unusually soft. She could only imagine what his chest felt like, the ridges and dips and softness and the beat of his heart as she placed her head on his chest. The unexpected image floated into her mind, clear as day—laying with Cassian on their bed together, his arm wrapped around her, keeping her warm as they slept, his wings folded over her in protection. It would just be so easy to reach over and touch the inside of that wing, to wake him up and make him moan for her, just for her and— _no._  

Nesta flinched as she came back to reality, her expression hardening into a mask of indifference to hide the heat creeping up her cheeks, and heaved out a heavy sigh, relieved Cassian couldn’t see her—or know what she’d just imagined. 

_These damn thoughts._ The bastard seemed to invade every area of her life, and she’d had enough. There would be no more thinking of him, dreaming of him, _helping_ him, after this. Things had to go back to normal, to _business as usual_. She prayed and prayed that the damn salve worked as she hastily worked on the rest of his back and moved to his wings. 

Cassian shuddered at her first touch. “You don’t have to—” 

“It’s fine. I’ll be quick.” 

And she was. She worked as deftly as she could, barely touching his wings; the less contact, the better, she thought, as she moved from cut to cut applying the salve. Cassian’s breathing grew heavy and ragged at the contact, which Nesta took as a cue to hurry up. After placing the last bit of cream, she stepped back, closing the tin. 

“Done.”

She said nothing more as she hurried out of his room and back to her own, her thoughts once again invaded by the bastard warrior.


	4. An Awakening

_Nesta_.

She was standing on the threshold, staring at him with her usual icy coolness, not a flicker of the haste or worry in her eyes from last night, if it could be even construed as such. Nesta had darted out that door all too quickly—her hands shaking as she tried to shut the door as gently as she could. Few would have noticed the shift in her, the shaking of her hands, the way she saved herself from stumbling out the door, the change in her eyes that she tried to hide by turning away. But Cassian had spent time examining her, _learning_ her. Teaching himself everything there was to know about the devastating female that nearly had him combusting in flames every moment they spent together. She was a puzzle, an enigma to be unlocked. And Mother save him, he wanted— _needed_ —to be the one to unlock the it. Unlock _her._ Whether it was a damning curiosity or some sort of sadism he didn’t know, didn’t care, really, but he found himself drawn to her, unable to turn away despite her near-constant cruelty towards him. From their first meeting Nesta had captured his attention and had refused to let go, and Cassian…well, Cassian wasn’t so sure he wanted to be released, anyway.

Ever so slowly he’d worked her out, had taught himself the best ways to tease and taunt and enrage; he learned the subtleties of her body movements and changes of expression, the way her nose crinkled when he drew near, or the way her body relaxed as soon as she had a book in her hands. More often than not, he’d find himself staring at Nesta—at the viciously beautiful female that invaded his dreams and thoughts.

And just when he thought he’d had her understood, had known everything there was to know about Nesta, she barged into his room claiming it as hers. And while her voice was cold when she spoke, her eyes…when she stared at him yesterday, Cassian could have sworn he’d seen a flicker of concern—of worry _,_ if only for a second. He’d immediately dismissed it, but the thought still gnawed at him, keeping him awake until the early morning.

And when he awoke to a knock, he tried to contain his shock at seeing Nesta step through his door for the second time.

Staring at him.

But there was no malice or coldness in her eyes while she took in his battered figure. He knew what she saw—the all too-numerous cuts and scrapes, the bruises, the black eye. His wings, coated in blood and mud, looking as though they might detach from his back at any moment. He felt it all too keenly. Every movement took effort— _too much effort_ —as he winced his way into a sitting position and met Nesta’s gaze.

Her expression was neutral, save for her eyes, which shared the same concern as they did yesterday. This time, though, it wasn’t a flicker—for as long as Nesta looked at him, at his beaten body, her eyes seemed to shine with that same concern, growing until she chose to speak.

As soon as her mouth opened her eyes returned to their cold, icy state, her voice hard as she reprimanded him for being awake and asked who did this to him. Who hurt him.

Cassian didn’t owe her answers, didn’t owe her anything, frankly, and he didn’t feel like talking. So he ground out a simple, “it’s not important.”

He was relieved when she didn’t push for more information. _Good,_ he thought, hoping she would leave and let him be. A small voice in his head, though, wanted him to beg her to stay, to keep him company while he healed.

He shoved the voice away until it was barely a whisper, telling Nesta that he’d recover and they would be back to their usual bickering and games soon—back to business as usual, as he chose to phrase it. At that, Nesta’s expression had shifted—was that…relief that he saw in her eyes, in the released tension from her shoulders?

And then she smiled at him—no, not him, he quickly realized, but an idea. He could see her thinking, planning something as she played with the rings on her fingers, pulling them off and then on again. _She fidgets when she’s plotting,_ he realized, cataloguing the realization in the back of his mind. _Just another piece of the puzzle._

“I’ll be right back,” she said, her eyes sparking as she swept herself out of the door.

Cassian’s legs nearly gave out as he pushed himself off of the bed and onto the floor. Cauldron, he was exhausted. And sore. So very sore. And while the bruises would be gone in no time, the cuts that reopened as he moved his body and his wings feeling like weights dragging him down…those would take time to heal, especially without a salve of some sort. He could ask Madja to whip something up, he realized, but if he could barely get out of bed; surely he couldn’t make it down the stairs to send her a message.

Shaking his head, he limped over to the window. The blue sky was dotted with white, puffy clouds that had Cassian debating whether he should just open up the window and soar into the sky—his wings and injuries be damned.

Just to feel the wind on his face and through his hair, that’s all he wanted. Being cooped up in his room had him antsy and itching for freedom—for the skies. But if he jumped out that window…even Cassian wasn’t so stupid to believe he could fly, not with his wings so tattered. And _dragging._ He’d tried to lift them up earlier that morning, used all of his strength, in fact, but…nothing. As though they, much like him, were too tired and beat to so much as obey a single command. It went against every instinct, every bit of training he’d received as an Illyrian, but he allowed it, knowing that if he didn’t, they might not heal fast enough. And for as anxious as he was to get back into the skies, he knew the risks of flying on injuries. Madja had explained that to him after a particularly bad skirmish a couple hundred years ago after he’d tried to fly back home and nearly fell out of the sky, forcing Azriel to catch—and then carry—him home. He’d abided ever since.

Cassian went to open the window, hoping a fresh breeze and the smells of Velaris would make him feel less like a dog in a cage, but had barely unlatched the lock before Nesta’s scent came flowing into the room. She was back.

She tossed him some sort of silver tin which he caught with ease, his eyebrows raised at the suspicious object and whatever was inside.

“A healing salve,” she said, answering Cassian’s unspoken question.

Sitting in the nearest chair, Cassian opened the tin. This was one of Madja’s concoctions—a blend designed to heal wounds faster than the average salve. He would be out and flying in no time, thanks to… _Nesta?_ The thought addled him as he realized just what she did for him, that small kindness. But as he looked to her, giving her a quiet, surprised thank you, there was no kindness in her face, her expression. It remained neutral, though still focused on him and those wounds that marred his body.

He worked quickly, working the salve as gently as he could into the wounds that covered his body, wincing at his own touch as he moved from his head down to his legs, applying salve to more of his body than he would have preferred.

Looking up, Cassian noticed Nesta had taken a few steps closer to him, staring intently at his hands as he applied the concoction. He was almost sure she’d left after tossing it to him, but…here she was, watching him struggle to reach his back with the salve. He looked like an idiot as he tried to contort his body in a way that would allow him to reach his back without wincing—to no avail. But Nesta didn’t laugh at him, didn’t make a comment on his ridiculous body movements, instead moving closer and commanding him to turn around and hand her the salve.

He did as she asked, despite the confusion begged him to stop her, to ask why she was being so kind. Why she was _helping_ him, a male he knew she’d rather have nothing to do with. Whatever her motivations, Cassian didn’t complain as she placed her hands on his back, ever so gently moving from wound to wound, working in the salve until

Cassian knew he shouldn’t enjoy this. He shouldn’t like the feeling of Nesta’s hands on his back, or the way her hands traced the contours of his back in a way that made him stifle a groan…but Cauldron damn him, he loved every second of it. Her hands were so soft, so gentle with him. He could nearly see them laying together, his arms wrapped around her, his wings cocooning her in a sea of protection and warmth while she slept. And then she woke, lifting her hand to the inside of his wing and moving her finger down, down the inner contour until he was shuddering, her touch an awakening that sent him reeling…

_Shit._

A jolt threw Cassian back down to a reality that had every one of his senses on alert.

Nesta was touching his wings.

“You don’t have to—” 

“I’ll be quick.”

Nesta kept true to her word, applying the salve deftly, quickly. _But not quick enough,_ he thought, working to stifle every moan that threatened to escape his lips. The pleasure of her hands on his wings was a spark. An awakening. No one had touched his wings before, save for a healer or two, but Nesta…her hands kept moving, everywhere she touched lighting up in pleasure at the contact. _Cauldron_ , he’d never felt this before, never felt as though he would combust at the same touch as the female that fought him at nearly every turn, that had shown nothing but disdain and hatred for him, that had somehow chosen to help him—

“Done.”

He heard the door close with quiet _click_ and sighed, looking down for a moment.

Only to find that Nesta’s touch had left him hard, his length unrestrained by his loose pants. 

_Shit._

She would destroy him, he realized. Nesta would absolutely destroy him.


	5. A Puzzle to Solve

_Cassian._

Nesta stood outside Cassian’s bedroom, staring at the door intently, as though trying to see the warrior who lived within, but failing.

She had just been in there.

Tending to his wings. His body. _Him._

Cassian.

Nesta chewed on her lip. She had… _helped him_. As though it were normal. Friendly, even. Something a friend would do for another. Maybe even—

_No._

Forcing herself to turn around, she went through the door and nearly fell into the nearest chair, heaving an exasperated sigh. By the Cauldron, what would it take to forget about him? To forget about his soft chest, his sensitive wings. And how she, for whatever misguided reason, had _touched_ him. Had felt the panes of his wings under her hands, like the softest silk she’d ever held, and his chest, the perfectly chiseled muscle marred by those wounds…Even his hair, despite the circumstances, fell in loose waves down to his shoulder, bits and pieces covering the hazel eyes that used to hold such delight, such wickedness in them. _They still held it_ , she noted—just…not now.

And Nesta had not noticed it before, had not wanted to notice it, she supposed, but damn her, Cassian was handsome. She nearly hated herself for the realization; Cassian was nothing to her, would never _be_ anything to her, but…even with the scars and cuts that marred his body, he was one of the most handsome men—males—she’d laid eyes on. Somehow, the vulnerability, the help, had given her the chance to look at him. Truly look at him.

She hated it.

She hated that he had her thinking about him, about how despite that he was the prey to her predator, he seemed to be winning at this little game of theirs. She only hoped that Cassian thought about her as much as she thought about him. Maybe that would make them even.

And to see him so weak, so devoid of himself, so at odds with the male she expected him to be, it was a jolt to her system. She was a fool to think there was nothing more to him than simple arrogance and overdramatics, but…reconciling the Cassian she knew with the piece she discovered was hard. Nearly impossible. It was like thinking a puzzle was complete, only to find missing pieces in the box and not knowing where they fit.

Damn her, Nesta wanted to finish the puzzle. She wanted to figure him out.

_Shit_.

No, she should hate him— _wanted_ to hate him. The gleam in his eyes, the lazy grin, the male arrogance. They made her want to rip him to pieces but…as much as she hated it, she found herself missing it. Missing _him._

Cassian was a shock to her system, a winged spark in her dreary, immortal life. A challenge to beat, to best. A puzzle to solve. So helping him, healing him…it was all part of their game.

Or so she supposed.

***

It had been three days since Nesta had seen Cassian. Three days since she handed him the tin of salve.

The first night, she kept her eyes trained on her door, as though she could sense the bastard even through the barriers that separated them. She couldn’t escape him, every thought drifting back to him, to his wounds. Was he healing? Was he still in bed? Was he even in the townhouse?

Thoughts of him tugged at her even in her sleep, as she saw him on the battlefield, his wounds torn wide open. He yelled her name, crawling towards her as she stood, watching, tears forming in her eyes at the sight of her warrior, wounded.

Nesta woke up scowling, and decided she needed a distraction.

So for the next two days, she kept to her room, refusing to leave. Books kept her company as she read. 

And read.

And read.

Her thoughts and dreams of Cassian drifted away with every book, leaving her feeling lifted and…some sort of emotion she couldn’t quite place.

She preferred romances, mostly, reading of a queen in love with her cook, a prince in love with his sister’s maidservant, but of all the stories she read, one particularly caught her attention.

The story of a low-born bastard in love with the princess.

She devoured that book faster than the others, reading into the early morning even when her eyes threatened to shut from exhaustion. Once sleep claimed her, she dreamt of the words on the page, of the bastard who would do anything, risk anything, to be with his princess. She dreamt of the ragged male, of the shoulder length hair tied up with a strap of leather, of the way his hazel eyes shone through the shadows concealing his face, his body. He walked to Nesta, still concealed by the shadows as he scooped her up in his arms and placed a kiss upon her brow. For here, Nesta was the princess, rescued by the bastard warrior.

When Nesta awoke, the haze of her dream cleared by the bright sunlight streaming through her windows, she was smiling. 

Nuala arrived as if on cue, bringing her breakfast and asking if she’d like to join the rest of the house for dinner.

Nesta merely declined, as politely as she could. She was fine in her room, eating and reading on her own. Alone. Though thoughts of Cassian still invaded her mind at times, it was less frequent, especially now that she hadn’t seen him in a few days. Preferably, she’d keep it that way.

Though she did miss her daily trips to the library. And the pile she kept on her night table had dwindled to nothing.

Nuala left after asking once more for her to at least consider coming to dinner tonight. “Just…think about it,” she’d said, “Elain would be ecstatic if you were there. She’s cooking, you see.”

Nesta let slip the hint of a smile and told her she’d consider it.

In the meantime, though, she had books to return.

***

Nesta made her way to the nearest library, a stack of books precariously balanced in her hands. 

Not among them, though, was the story of the bastard and the princess. No, she would keep that one. Buy it off the librarian, if she had to. There was something about it that spoke to her, sang to her, that made her want to read and reread until her eyes would no longer allow it. And so she kept it under her pillow, hidden for safekeeping, lest anyone— _Feyre_ —went searching for books in her room. She would not find this one, no. This was the one book she wouldn’t let her borrow. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

Nesta did her best to balance the books as she walked, the normally short route feeling endless with the stack in her hands that forced her pace to slow to a mere crawl. Even with her Fae limbs and grace, balancing these books was a most difficult task.

And one that she absolutely hated.

She wished she had the power to just float these books beside her, a phantom wind keeping them balanced and moving—at least then she could move at a normal pace.

If only…

Instead, the wind seemed to be working against her as it blew her this way and that. Were it not for the bun she’d placed her hair in earlier, her vision would be entirely obscured by strands whipping every which way. Even so, it seemed as though the wind grew stronger, the books starting to sway left and right and left again until—

“ _DAMMIT._ ”

Her books tumbled to the ground with a loud _crash,_ Nesta dropping to the ground to retrieve them. How she would be able to balance them again, though, with this wind…

She huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face as she started stacking the books on top of one another again. Cauldron, there were so many. How she ever thought she could carry them all, she didn’t know, but it was too late now. She was about to stack the last book onto the pile when a shadow appeared over her, the broad body shading her from the sun and wind as it crouched down to her level.

“Need some help there, Nes?”


	6. Lead the Way

It had taken Cassian three days to heal.

One day until he could move, and another two until his wings felt strong enough to fly. The salve Nesta had brought him worked quickly. The cuts were gone, replaced by faint scars that would fade with time. The bruises remained but caused no pain, even when he flexed his arms and stretched his wings.

_Good enough to fly,_ he noted, bursting out of his room and running down the stairs, to the door, to the sky—

He was almost to the door, his hand nearly on the handle when he stopped, turning around and backtracking back up the stairs to the door across from his.

Nesta’s room.

She had healed him, had given him the salve that had him up and moving in a mere three days…and then left. And hadn’t come back. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really; what could he expect? Nesta wanted nothing to do with him most days and played cruel games with him on others.

Coming to his room, giving him the salve…that was new, and unlikely to happen again. Nesta’s kindness only extended so far—if at all—and he was thankful, lucky, even, that she showed him that part of her. Even if he never saw it again, even if he had to endure her cruelty for the next century, it was worth it. Just for those few moments, to see that side of her that so few had seen.

In fact, these past few days, she was all he could think about, even after she’d left, refusing to talk to him or come to his room since. Hell, he even dreamed about her, about rescuing her and flying her away into the sunset. Nesta was his princess, and he her warrior.

Cassian secretly loved those dreams. Woke up smiling to them.

And it made a sliver of him wish, _hope,_ that Nesta dreamt of him too, though he pushed those thoughts deep down, until they were hidden from even himself. Until the thoughts, the dreams…they were nearly a whisper, a secret he would admit to no one, least of all himself.

Not yet.

But Nesta had helped him, and he could at least repay the favor. Say thank you.

He knocked. Once, twice. No answer.

Cassian expected he’d ignore her, but he was persistent, and kept knocking…to no avail. He put his ear to the door, using his Fae hearing to pick up a sound—any sound, really—but heard nothing.

_She’s not home,_ he realized, frowning, and promised himself that he’d thank her the next time he saw her.

***

Cassian soared through the sky, the sunlight casting his shadow onto the Sidra as he steered into an updraft.

Cauldron, he missed this.

The flying.

The wind sang to him, a tune of freedom and healing and happiness catching his ear with every gust and updraft. He beat his wings and pushed himself higher until he was nothing but a dark speck in the clouds, an observer, looking down at the sparkling river, the Fae in the streets, the hustle and bustle of Velaris, his lips tugging upward into the hint of a smile. Not so much for the city, though it was beautiful, but…the freedom he felt while circling above, and the freedom its citizens felt. Cassian remembered all too well the injustices people— _his_ people—had witnessed. Rhys Under the Mountain, Feyre in the Spring Court, Nesta at Hybern…they’d all had their freedom ripped away. _Stolen_. But Velaris was a symbol of hope, a place for all to do as they wish, to be free; to soar in the skies and walk along the river without bonds or chains. And looking down at his city, that was what he loved. What he cherished, and what made him smile at the citizens walking the streets and entering the shops.

He flew his usual route, starting at the townhouse and circling the entire city and mountains and forest beyond, repeating the route until his wings barked and begged for him to stop and rest. _Home,_ they cried, and Cassian nearly obeyed, his own exhaustion threatening to ground him right then and there—

Until he picked up a familiar scent of steel and embers and smoke that called to him. Sang to him, as the wind did today.

Cassian followed, pushing his wings to their limit after being rested for those few days. It would take time to get their full strength back, he knew. But he forced them to keep going and trailed the scent from the townhouse a short distance until he spotted a female in an elegant gray dress, carrying a stack of books that engulfed her frame and hid her face. But he would know that scent from anywhere. He’d memorized it after their first meeting.

One minute the books were obscuring her from view. The next they were scattered across the ground, open with pages flipping wildly in the wind. Nesta’s face twisted in frustration as she crouched to the ground to pick them up, stacking them once more and letting out a string of curses loud enough for the entire block to hear.

_Help her,_ said a voice inside his head, pulling him toward the female.

Even in her casual wear, she was stunning. Her gray dress was simple but elegant and hugged her body in all the right places, revealing the curves and planes of her body. Her golden hair, despite a few strands blowing in the breeze, was tied up in an elegant bun. And her eyes… _Cauldron,_ those eyes were as piercing from far away as they were up close—as though she could see right to him, through him, despite the distance.

Nesta was beautiful, and Cassian was unashamed to admit it.

He flew down to the ground and landed silently, walking towards Nesta. She was placing the last book on the top of a massive pile when he stood in front of her.

“Need some help there, Nes?” He asked with a lazy grin.

She looked up, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’ve told you—”

“Not to call you that, I know, I know,” said Cassian. “but I think it’s a lovely nickname. So we’re keeping it, I think.”

Nesta let a low growl slip from her lips.

He only winked. _Game on._

“Leave.”

“But what if I want to help?” He said and grabbed half the pile of books. “You couldn’t possibly carry all of these by yourself, they’d topple over and take you right with! We don’t want that happening now, do we?”

“Mother above…” Nesta grumbled, barely audible.

“Hmm, what was that? You _agree_ with me? I think I’m in shock. Now, grab the other half and tell me where we’re going, Nes.”

“If you’re so damn intent on carrying my books, take them all.”

Cassian considered it. Certainly with his balance, his frame, he could carry them all no problem, but she’d likely just turn back home and lock herself in her room, away from everyone. Away from _him._ But if…

“Only if you tell me where to take them—”

“Fine.”

“And you walk with me,” Cassian added with a smirk.

“No—”

“Lead the way, Nesta,” he said, seemingly ignoring her and extending his arm out for her to take.

She refused the gesture, waving her hand forward as she walked right past him with little more than a glance in his direction.

“It’s this way, you bastard.”


	7. Let's Play

Nesta scowled at the Illyrian behind her and stopped, letting him catch up to her.

“Hurry up.”

“I can only go so fast with these books, _princess,_ ” Cassian responded sharply, though the tone was unmistakable.

_Fine. If he wants to play, I’ll play_.

She stifled an eye roll and plastered a sickly sweet smile on her face. Cassian cocked his head. Nesta had never smiled in his presence, had never shown any sort of happiness, really. Her smile, however fake, had surprised him. _Good._ She pointed to a nearby building. “We’re almost there, _sweetheart_.

Nesta watched as Cassian furrowed his brows at her exclamation. _You heard right, bat-boy,_ she thought triumphantly. But her win was short lived. Cassian flashed her a toothy smile and moved the books to his left hand. Then he extended his right arm, wriggling his fingers.

“Shall we?”

Does he…Oh _. Oh._ Sneaky bastard.

She would not lose this game. Sighing, she didn’t hesitate and took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

Cassian’s body went rigid at the contact. She could feel him tense and he squeezed her hand a little tighter. His eyes darted to where his callused skin met hers and stayed there, and it looked like he was…shocked? Rattled? She couldn’t tell. But she wouldn’t lose this game, and if that meant holding his hand…pretending…so be it. He’d started it, anyway. And it wasn’t like it meant anything.

But there was something about the way he looked at their entwined fingers that had some part of her doubting it was just a game to him.

“Cassian. Let’s go,” she said, shaking off the thought.

He didn’t seem to hear her.

“Cassian. _Cass._ ”

She thought using his nickname, _surprising him_ , would at least get his attention, or jar him at the very least. But...nothing.

_Fuck it,_ she thought, and started to walk, tugging him along.

That shook him from his stupor. He went to let go of her hand, to simply follow, but Nesta kept a hold on him and their fingers remained laced. She wasn’t going to let him get out of this so easily. He’d started this, after all. So they walked side by side and hand in hand towards the library.

_What a sight we must be,_ she thought as they trudged along. _Us. Together._ Cassian didn’t utter a word about it—or at all—while they walked, his body still rigid, his grip on her hand tight once again. He didn’t seem to notice the passing stares and secret glances from Fae on the street, though Nesta did. She could see the shock on their faces, the surprise of seeing the Lord of Bloodshed walking with the eldest Archeron sister, their hands entwined. She didn’t care what they thought and returned their expressions with a lethal glare. _Keep watching,_ she taunted, _see what happens._ They quickly found something else to look at.

She almost laughed at Cassian’s visible discomfort. She’d beat him at his own game, his own idea. Even though something felt off about the whole situation…she’d won.

***

Once inside the library, she let go of his hand.

Cassian immediately relaxed at the loss of contact, much to Nesta’s surprise. Had he…no. This was a game, he knew it, she knew it. So why was he so rattled by their latest round? Every possible answer had her more confused than the next. _Later,_ she told herself. These were questions for later. Ones she needed to ponder alone, away from him.

Nesta shook her head and turned to Cassian. His expression was neutral. No sign of the discomfort from earlier. “Where should I put these…?” he finally asked, gesturing with his head towards the books.

Nesta pointed vaguely to the counter where a librarian stood, smiling gently at them. She wanted to snap at him, play with him…but it felt wrong somehow, to do so. Instead, she grabbed half the pile from Cassian and walked up to the librarian.

Cassian followed, putting his stack next to her.

“Returning these?” The librarian asked.

“Yes, thank you,” replied Nesta while the librarian checked off book after book, noting their return.

Cassian went to browse while Nesta watched the librarian, who finally finished and looked at her quizzically. “There seems to be one book missing, miss. The one about the bastard warrior and the princess. Do you have it?”

“I don’t. Actually, I was wondering if I could buy it from you. I’m quite attached to it, you see,” Nesta said, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cassian pause his browsing and eye her curiously, as if to say, _a bastard warrior and a princess?_

“That’s one of my favorites! I’m so glad you liked it,” said the librarian, “I’m happy to let you buy it.”

Before Nesta could hand over her coins, Cassian was by her side, speaking softly to the librarian, his voice firm.

“I’ll buy it for her.”

Nesta turned to winged male. “I can buy it for myself.”

“I’ll buy it for her,” he repeated a little louder, handing a few coins to the librarian. Then, softer, so only Nesta could her, he said, “Nes…just let me. Please.” She relented. After all, she _did_ give him the salve a few days ago. She supposed this was his way of saying thank you.

Nesta left with a new stack of books curated by the librarian herself. She’d known Nesta a good while and had promised she’d enjoy these picks. Nesta took a look at them and noticed they were mostly romances. She smiled softly. The librarian _did_ know her taste. 

Cassian took the books from her hands as they walked to the exit. “Wouldn’t want you dropping them _again,_ ” he teased, smirking at her. She noticed the light in his eyes was back again.

Nesta almost— _almost_ —smiled at the gesture.

Before they could shut the door, the librarian cooed, “you two are the cutest couple I’ve seen walk through my shop.”

Nesta paused at the threshold. They were _no such thing_ —

“I know,” Cassian said, winking.

Nesta huffed and pushed herself through the door and back to the townhouse.

Without Cassian.


	8. No Hesitation

_I’m winning this round, Nes,_ thought Cassian as he contemplated his next move.

She wouldn’t dare take his hand. Their exchanges and insults and overly-sweet pet names were one thing, but physical contact? Neither of them had dared cross that line, not after she’d healed him. Even before that, their games were strictly verbal.

But today, for whatever Cauldron-damned reason, Cassian wanted to. He  _wanted_ Nesta to take his hand, to lace her fingers through his and walk with him, instead of pointing and scowling and glaring at his every movement. He told himself it was all part of this little game—to do something so outrageous that it guaranteed a win on his part, but the more he thought about it, the more Cassian wanted Nesta next to him, and the less it became about winning. It was as though some invisible force were pulling him to her, begging him for this touch, this contact. Despite his better judgement, despite this all being a game, one thing was certain.

He wanted  _her._

And so he wriggled his fingers, forced a playful grin on his face, and hoped—no, wondered—if Nesta would take his hand.

When she did so without any hesitation, Cassian’s eyes went wide and his body rigid.

She— _Nesta_ —was holding his hand. Without malice, anger…she was…she actually did it.

Nesta might’ve been staring at him but he didn’t notice—hell, he didn’t care, not when her hand was actually in his.

_His._

He squeezed her hand a little tighter, just to be certain this all wasn’t just some cruel dream his mind constructed for him. Sure enough he felt her smooth palms and long fingers interlaced with his, rubbing against his own, rough and callus.

For all the time he spent learning the female next to him, he sure as hell didn’t know as much as he’d thought. The Nesta he knew would have laughed in his face and sauntered along, leaving him to trudge along behind her. That Nesta would never have taken his hand, instead calling him some iteration of  _bastard bat-boy_ with an upturned lip and dangerously angry eyes. She would never have even considered taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers together. The sheer touch would’ve made her recoil, he’d bet.

But this was not the Nesta he knew, the Nesta he’d learned and understood over the course of their brief time together. She still had that edge, the defenses and walls and insults he’d become accustomed to by now, but…after he’d returned from the camps injured something had changed between them. He’d be an idiot not to have noticed it, whether in the way she tried to help him (he still wondered where she got such a good salve), or in the way their games changed, so slight anyone could miss it: insults that didn’t have as much of a bite, taking his hand, the way her lips started to turn up at the corners when she looked at him, showing him a hint of a smile he knew she tried to hide. But he knew. He noticed, because he noticed everything about her. About  _them._

Their relationship had irrevocably changed since that fateful day in his room, and he was slowly starting to accept that it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Cassian thought he could hear someone calling his name, urging him to move, but he was planted to the ground, his eyes on their hands, his mind going through every interaction, every moment he’d shared with Nesta.

And then he heard a whisper in his mind, so soft and swift he nearly missed it.  _You—_

Cassian jolted at the sudden tug that shook him from his stupor. Nesta.

How long was he standing there, staring at their hands? At her? Long enough, apparently, for Nesta’s little patience to run out.

He moved to let go of Nesta’s hand so she could walk ahead of him; there was no reason for them to continue this.  _Game over,_ he thought sadly—but she still held on and gave him a small squeeze. Cassian tried not to let the shock register and just kept moving, his eyes trained on the female beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see other Fae on the streets staring at them, but Nesta seemed to scare them off with nothing more than a glare or the baring of her teeth, as if to say  _he’s mine._

But he wasn’t hers, nor she his.  _Not yet,_ a voice whispered in his head,  _not yet._ Cassian almost snapped back a silent  _not ever_ but… he thought he might want that  _yet_ to become reality, as foolish and unlikely as it may be.

She didn’t let go of his hand until they got to the library and Cassian had asked where to put the books. Nesta pointed him to an old, wooden desk with a short, older Fae behind it before taking half the pile from out of his hands and sauntering over to the counter.

Cassian followed and gently put the remaining books down before heading towards the stacks. He wasn’t one for reading most of the time, but if they were going to be here a while, might as well make the most of it. He skimmed the titles—he was looking at the cookbooks, apparently—and pulled a particularly dusty book off the shelf. Before he could open the title page, his fae hearing picked up a particularly interesting conversation between Nesta and the librarian.

She’d come back without a book. Nesta would never, unless… _oh. She wants to buy this one. A bastard warrior and a princess?_ He raised an eyebrow at her. Nesta was ever a romance-lover, he knew, but the title sounded oddly familiar, as if out of a dream he’d had once before, where the warrior rescues the princess, carrying her to safety in his arms. But in his dream, Nesta was the princess, and he the warrior, flying them both away from danger.

“I’ll buy it for her.”

He walked up to the counter where Nesta was standing, his mind made up as soon as he’d heard them talking. Cassian wanted to give this book to her. Cauldron knew why, but he wanted to.  _Needed_ to.

Despite Nesta’s protests, she’d let him place the coins on the counter. He smiled, and when she went to grab the new stack of books the librarian had curated for her, Cassian took them instead, winking and reminding her what happened the last time she carried these many books on a windy day. He wasn’t surprised she let him carry them, and he was happy to do it.

They were almost out the door when the librarian told them they were the cutest couple she’d ever seen.

“I know,” Cassian said, winking, the words spilling out of him before he could stop himself.

Nesta let out a huff and stalked out of the door before Cassian could stop her. By the time he made it outside, she was well ahead of him. There was no use catching up to her now.

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair.  _Cauldron boil and fry me._


	9. A Dumb, Perfect Mouth

_Cutest couple._

_I know._

Nesta was shocked she hadn’t strangled Cassian right then and there in the doorway of the library.  _I know._ Really? The bastard had some nerve making claims about their relationship. About the presence of one.

They had no relationship. At least, not anymore. Any semblance of wanting on Nesta’s part, every nerve in her body that drew her towards him after she’d single handedly nursed him back to health, had disappeared. Instead, a cold, hard rage took its place, surging through her bones and fueling her every step as she hurried to the townhouse.

Nesta frowned. Half an hour ago she was holding his hand. And not for a joke, or a game, though she deluded herself with those meager excuses. In her heart, she had  _wanted_ him. Had wanted to take his hand, and had not hesitated to do so. Hell, the male even carried her books…was still carrying her books, in fact. She’d have to get those back from him.

But then he went and opened his dumb, perfect mouth.

Cassian was always good at ruining the moment—or the day—it seemed.

Nesta really shouldn’t have been surprised. He likely thought nothing of them, of  _her,_ or whatever this thing between them was called. Was it a friendship…a relationship? She honestly didn’t know. But it had been something, that’s for certain. And he had ruined it, had broken whatever progress they’d made over the past week into pieces.

She was almost sad that he’d done it. Maybe they were on the way to…to being  _something._

Nesta didn’t even realize that she’d made it up the steps of the townhouse until she bumped into a startled Elain.

“Is everything okay, Nesta? You’re never this…” Elain trailed off, but Nesta could guess the words that followed.

Aloof.

Distracted.

Preoccupied.

Three words of which she was not.  Not usually.  _Damn that bastard._

Nesta mustered a smile for her sister. “Just lost in thought. Don’t worry about me, El,” she told her.

“Okay…well, Nuala was supposed to tell you, but, I’m helping out with dinner tonight and,” she said, giving Nesta a tentative smile, “and I’d really like it if you could make it.”

The dinner. She’d almost forgot after…well, after everything.

She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to be surrounded by their  _family,_ as Feyre liked to put it. She’d had quite enough of one Illyrian for today. She didn’t need two more. Plus Amren. And Mor. And Feyre. And…Cassian. Nesta  _really_ didn’t want to see him any more than she already had.

But Elain’s face lit up when she mentioned cooking dinner, and her smile…she was so excited for this dinner. And she wanted Nesta to be there. She couldn’t miss it. Not when it was this important to her sister.

“I’ll be there, Elain, I promise.”

***

Nesta specifically chose to wear her favorite navy dress. Not only was it flawless, but it never failed to make Cassian drool all over the table, staring at the fabric that hugged her body perfectly, every curve on display.

She knew it drove him crazy.

And she loved that it did.

She looked at herself in the mirror. As a human, her features were always considered to be beautiful, but as Fae, they were devastating. The sharp angles of her face were designed to bring males to their knees, not swoon. Nesta wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Her hair was braided and then coiled on the top of her head in a neat bun, not a golden hair out of place. Kohl lined her eyelids, her blue-gray eyes stark, almost blazing, against the dark color. Grabbing a pale lipstick from her collection, she swiped it on before mentally arming herself for this dinner. Though she hoped for her sister’s sake that she and Cassian didn’t get into it at dinner…she couldn’t make any promises. And she almost wanted a fight with him, if it meant getting under his skin.  _Payback,_ she’d thought,  _for earlier._

But Nesta shoved the thought away. She couldn’t ruin her sister’s plans. At least, not on purpose.

***

Nesta was the first one into the dining room, finding her seat quickly between Amren and Mor.  _Good,_ she thought, as she looked around the table, noticing the place-cards for the rest of the Inner Circle.

Elain had taken care to put Cassian and Nesta on opposite sides. Far, far away from each other. That, of course, couldn’t really stop them, but Nesta appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

She took her seat, and waited for the others to file in.

Feyre was first, with Rhys close behind, whispering something to the Shadowsinger, who was right at his side. Mor was next, but Nesta barely noticed the others filing in anymore. Not when Cassian walked through those doors, his eyes trained on her. Narrowing. Assessing.

She sucked in a breath and narrowed her eyes back.  _And so it begins._

“You look beautiful, Nes,” he said, striding not to his seat, but towards her. To the seat directly to her right.

_Oh, no. No you don’t._

“Mor, I think you’re in the wrong seat. See, you’re supposed to be over there,” he pointed at the seat meant to be his, “and I’m right here.”

“Cass, no…not today. Not  _now._ ”

He threw his hands up. “No fights today, promise. Nes and I have a cease fire tonight, don’t we?”

Nesta eyed him curiously. He  _had_ to be planning something. But…yes, tonight was supposed to be a truce, at least, if it were possible. She may have dressed ready to fight, but she wasn’t going to be the one to start it. “Mor, don’t worry. No arguments tonight,” she assured.

Mor relented, giving up her seat to the winged male and moving to the other end of the table. Nesta could’ve sworn she’d muttered something about the two of them, but she couldn’t quite make out anything aside from “insufferable” and “blind idiots in love.”

Cassian turned to face her. “About today. I’m…sorry for earlier. At the bookshop.”

“Sure you are,” she replied, narrowing her eyes.

“I am. Really.”

“You knew it’d get a rise out of me. You  _knew_ how angry—”  

Nesta was interrupted by the first course, grateful for the reprieve.  

She dug in, her focus solely on the salad in front of her, instead of the Illyrian next to her. The less she thought of him, the better. The more silence between the two, the less risk that she’d single-handedly ruin this dinner by drop-kicking Cassian across the table.

They made it to the entrée before Cassian decided to speak again.

This time, he leaned over to her, whispering. His hot breath against her ear had every nerve on edge. She had to keep herself from shuddering.

“About earlier…” he started.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not that.”

Nesta paused.  _What_ …

But then he answered for her. “You know, I meant it when I said you looked beautiful tonight.”

_Oh. That._

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. How can I prove it to you?”

“You can’t,” she said sternly.

“But you  _are_ beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, I’d love to—”

Nesta didn’t let Cassian finish. She’d had enough. It didn’t matter whether this dinner was for her sister, it didn’t matter how they stared when she flung herself out of her chair, rattling the table and the dishes upon it. She didn’t care about anything but the idiot Illyrian still in his seat as she raced out of the room and up the stairs, back to her room.

She didn’t even notice that Cassian had left a new pile of books from the library on her night table, a note lying precariously at the top.


	10. Distractions

Cassian was fuming.

He hadn’t even said anything to provoke her…had he? He’d really tried not to. Tonight was a cease fire, and he stayed true to his word.

Well, he tried to.  _Wanted to._

And when he told Nesta how beautiful she looked, he meant it. Truly, truly meant it.

Admittedly, he had forced Mor to switch seats with him—that mayhave been a little fishy. But couldn’t she—couldn’t anyone, really—see he wasn’t just trying to play their usual game?

Cassian was trying to be  _nice._ Genuine.

Apparently that did him no good. Not when it came to Nesta. No amount of kindness would work on her, it seemed, especially when coming from him.

It wasn’t so much her attitude that frustrated him. Nor was it the fact that she stormed out of the dining room, clearly upset with him. Sure, he wished she would cut the attitude sometimes. But he understood…they were never really, well, friends. They never complimented one another, never showed any sort of kindness…there was no reason she should’ve acted any differently. Just because he—because he’d wanted to try—didn’t mean she had to, too.

But again, a sliver of him had hoped she would. Just one chance. That’s all he wanted. All he needed.

If she’d trusted him…if she’d just given him a few more seconds of her time—if she’d just  _believed_ him for once—maybe he wouldn’t have felt so defeated, so angry, as she stalked away just now.

Cassian knew he’d fucked up earlier at the bookstore. He wanted to apologize, had written the whole thing down and recited it over and over until he got it right, until he was sure Nesta would believe him. When he sat down next to her, he was ready, apology in his head, declarations of  _I’m sorry_ prepared. He knew it what it would take for her to believe him. He hoped his apology would be enough.

But then she looked at him with those fiery, blue-gray eyes, and all words, all apologies, scattered from his mind. He was left with only a simple  _I’m sorry._ No declarations, no frills, no explanation…just a few, simple words.

And she hadn’t believed him.

If she would only listen, if she would try, for just a second, to believe that Cassian was genuine in his words…Cauldron, that’s what drove him nuts. The distrust. He understood it, but he hated it. And he had thought that maybe, just maybe, after the salve, the conversations, maybe she’d started to believe him, to trust him.

Apparently not.

Hell, she didn’t even let him finish his sentence before storming off to Cauldron-knew-where.

If she had, maybe she wouldn’t have left. They would have enjoyed a nice dinner, quiet, civil conversation, and then maybe they’d be going out for a drink after this very meal.

Cassian had been mere words away from asking Nesta on a date.

But she hadn’t given him the chance.

Cassian should’ve known better. To ask Nesta Archeron on a date was like asking a mountain cat to play nice. But that small voice in his head, the one that inexplicably drew him to Nesta at every turn, had convinced him to try.  _Take the chance,_ it had said,  _the worst thing she can do is say no._

_Or she can storm off before I can even ask her,_ he thought now, sighing before dragging a hand through his tangled hair.  

_At least you finally admitted your feelings for her,_ the voice replied,  _it took you long enough._

_Shut up._

Cassian took the risk, he tried to ask her. Wasn’t it good enough that he admitted his own attraction towards her this week? That every time she came near him he found his heart pounding and his eyes locked on her? Was it not enough that he felt himself drawn to Nesta Archeron, as though a tether inexplicably drew them closer with every encounter, every thought?

Was it not enough that he’d written her a letter, apologizing and explaining everything—the games, the thoughts, his feelings—and left it for her to find in her room, placed on top of her new library books, just in case she refused to listen?

He’d done everything.  _Tried_ everything. And even if she found the letter, it wasn’t exactly likely that she’d forgive him. Or even agree to a date.

Maybe he was better off without having finished his statement at dinner.

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

_You don’t mean—_

_I do._

***

Dinner went on for ages.

Normally, with Nesta there, dinner seemed to fly by, their snarky comments making the time fly by, until he was laughing and she was smiling. Not at each other, of course, but at the insults they could land on one another.

They always liked to see who landed the hardest blow.

Cassian heaved a deep breath.  _Stop. Stop thinking about her,_ he thought, though that was much easier said than done. He spent nearly half of the past hour and a half at the dinner table thinking of ways to distract himself from her. And that damned letter.

It was too late to get it back and destroy it. He’d just have to hope she didn’t find it—and if she did, he could only pray that she never opened it.

Cassian needed a distraction. Something to forget that he’d ever written that Cauldron-damned letter. And to forget that he’d tried asking her on a date.

The dinner conversation steered to the Illyrian camps.

“Devlon’s been acting up again,” Rhys said.

Cassian perked up at the mention.

“How so? I thought Cassian had it under control,” Azriel asked, shadows swarming around him.

“I did,” Cassian replied smoothly, “I thought I got the message across.”

“Clearly you didn’t,” said the High Lord.

Cassian rolled his eyes. He’d certainly taught those Illyrians a lesson when he’d beaten them—no, Nesta had beaten them. Had taken them down in mere seconds while he was bloody and bleeding and…that had only been a dream, he recalled, as the true events of the night came flooding back.

He’d barely beaten those three Illyrians, and even then, they’d left him bloody and scratched, wings tattered and covered in wounds. It was only because of Nesta’s help that he’d healed so quickly…and the reason he was able to take to the skies so quickly after his injuries.

He still hadn’t thanked her. He afforded her at least that.

But Cassian had more important things to worry about. If Devlon’s camp was acting up again, he wanted—needed—to put them in their place. They couldn’t treat their females like slaves and keep getting away with it.

“I’ll leave tonight for the camps,” Cassian said, turning to Rhys.

“Maybe I should go this time.”

Az and Feyre nodded a bit. Agreement.

Cassian’s hazel eyes turned to flame. “I’ll go.”

He needed this—the distraction.

“Cassian…” It was Feyre this time, trying to convince him to stay. To let Rhys take the lead after what happened last time.

“I’m going. Rhys, I’ll be in the office in ten for prep. I’m leaving tonight.”

Rhys could only nod as Cassian stepped out the door and towards the House of Wind to pick up his weapons and gear.


	11. A Letter

The first thing Nesta did when she got back to her room was flop onto her bed. The second thing she did was grab the nearest pillow, and started to punch. Fuck him. Fuck him, and his stupid face, and his  _stupid, beautiful hair._

She hated him.

Hated the way he made her toes curl when he whispered into her ear, the way he called her beautiful. She  _knew_ he was trying to get a rise out of her, trying to find the easiest way to piss her off. How utterly typical.  

_Well, Cassian, it worked,_ she thought as her fist slammed into the pillow.

Again.

Again.

She only wished it were his face. Oh, to punch Cassian…now that would be fitting payback.

Nesta kept fighting, snarling and growling, until the pillow was nothing but shreds.  _Good._ She grabbed another one and reached for a book on the table to pummel it with, in addition to her fists. Books did make for great weapons, after all.

In her fit of rage, she didn’t notice the letter atop the book, or how it fell to the ground, under her nightstand.

_“That’s—what—you—get—when—you—try—and—piss—me—off!”_ Nesta screamed, until the book flew out of her hands and crashed into the wall. Fists would have to do, now. She let herself pummel the pillow into oblivion, until there was nothing left but an empty pillowcase, which she ripped in two with her hands.

Mother above, this felt good.

How  _dare_ he convince her to care about him, only to turn around and change his mind and toy with her and her feelings, as though she were nothing more than a doll to be used and discarded.

_How dare he._

But most importantly, how dare he call her  _beautiful._

The bastard knew—knew exactly what he was saying, the weight it would carry. And to say it so casually, as if it were part of their game…

Nesta shook her head, clearing her mind. No. She would not think about him for one more minute. He, of all people, didn’t deserve that kind of time.

So she stood up, picked her book up off of the floor, and got to reading. But despite her best efforts, her eyes glazed over the page, her thoughts roaming to Cassian, to dinner…

_No._

She forced herself to stare at the page and read every word, every letter, slowly. Individually. But these words, the sentences they formed…none of it seemed to stick in her head. Not when she was plagued by Cassian and his insufferable self. It wasn’t as though he was here with her, but he might as well be, with how much she thought about him. About their latest exchange.

Sighing, Nesta gave up on reading and reached for her bookmark—one of however many, she didn’t know—on the nightstand. She would never, ever dogear a book. Ever. And if anyone borrowed a book and dogeared the page…let’s say they had a storm coming. A Nesta sized storm.

Nesta had plenty of bookmarks, but tended to stick to using her favorite. It was a deep shade of red, crafted from the softest velvet, with a small, embroidered  _N_ at the top. The velvet covered a leather interior, which had bent over the years—but never broken. It was a gift from her sisters when they were young; they’d noticed how she’d plow through bookmarks, even using old pieces of paper to mark her place. They’d given it to her as a more permanent option, one that would never fall out of her books, either, if she chose to use it.

And she did. For every book she read, if she ever put it down, she’d mark it with the bookmark from her sisters.

But as she searched on the nightstand, she couldn’t find it. She checked on top of the stack of books, around them, under them, but…nothing.  _It couldn’t have gone far,_ she thought, working to stop the panic from rising—she would find it. She  _had_ to.

So she hopped off the bed and got onto the floor, looking under her bed for her precious bookmark.

_Nothing._

She turned and looked under the nightstand. She didn’t see anything at first, the darkness forcing her to squint, but…there. She could’ve sworn she saw a hint of red, and squeezed her hand through the gap, grabbing what felt like velvet—and a piece of paper? Confused, she grabbed onto both and pulled her hand back out, heaving a sigh of relief at her bookmark—found, and not broken.

But she narrowed her eyes at the second item—a letter, sealed with red wax and addressed to her.  _Who…_ There was no name attached, no address. All that was written was  _Nesta Archeron,_ in what looked to be a hasty, scrawled script.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Nesta opened the letter, and began to read.

_Nesta,_

_After today, I think I owe you an explanation._

_We’ve been playing games for some time now. And at the bookstore earlier, even on our walk there, I just, I was having a great time being with you_. _Finally dropping the game, the act, and just being_ together.  _And I thought you were too. So when I made that comment calling us the cutest couple…well, let’s just say I wasn’t thinking. The words spilled out, and I am truly, truly sorry if they upset you in any way._

_But what I’m not sorry for is saying them. This shouldn’t really come as a shock to you, but, I love you, Nesta. I’ve loved you since the day I vowed to protect you._

Nesta’s heart stopped. But she kept reading.

_I tried. I really tried to let you go, to stop thinking about you, about what we went through, because I didn’t want to throw it on you. Not after what happened. And then you started talking to me, started playing games, and you were suddenly in my life again, and I would take that, even if it meant having insults hurled at me and teasing you endlessly. But the more we played, the more I realized…I love being around you. I love your wits, your humor, your everything. I love everything about you._

_And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for dumping this on you in a letter, of all things, but I wasn’t sure I could tell you—or if you’d even listen, if I tried. So before I took your books to your room tonight, I wrote you this letter. Future Cassian does have plans to tell you, though. In fact, if you’ve found this after Elain’s dinner tonight, he should’ve already asked you on a date. And please, try and believe him. I know he doesn’t deserve it, but…try._

She stopped breathing.

_I love you, Nes. I do. And I’m sorry for my shitty behavior these past few months. I promise you, I’ll make up for it._

_Cassian_

What an idiot she’d been.  _Tonight._ He was talking about tonight in his letter, and she’d done just as he expected. She didn’t believe him. And Mother Above, if he wasn’t lying…

Tears started to fall down her cheeks. Nesta didn’t bother to wipe them away as she ran out of her room, letter in hand, and knocked on the door across the hall.

Cassian’s room.

But no one answered.

She knocked again, to no avail. Of course he wouldn’t want visitors tonight, not after she’d been so cruel to him. Trying the handle, she found it unlocked, and walked through the door.

There was no sign of him.

His bed was made, clothes nowhere to be seen, and his weapons…they were gone.

_Where is he._

Nesta’s feet guided her down the steps, before she realized where she was going, but Rhys was right where she expected, sitting in his desk, feet up.

He raised his brows at her.

“Have you been…crying?”

“Where is he,” she breathed, trying to hold in a sob.

“Cassian?”

She nodded.

“He insisted he go to the camps. He’s at Devlon’s now.”

Nesta nodded her thanks and started to head out the door.

“Nesta,” Rhys called. She turned around.

“He should be back…soon,” he said, trying to reassure her.

“Good,” she said, and rushed up the stairs, barging into the door on the left.

She barely made it into bed before the sobs came.


	12. The Tug

Cassian was half-way to Devlon’s when he felt a tug pull him in the opposite direction.

Back home.

He ignored it at first, thinking it simply the strong gusts of wind he flew against, but they kept coming, tug after tug, each one stronger than the last. And with each pull, he could’ve sworn he heard what seemed to be…sobs?

_Just the wind,_ he reminded himself, pushing against each tug, each gust of the wind stronger than the last.  _But what if…_

_What if someone’s in trouble._

He’d had gut feelings before. Over the centuries, war had taught him to trust his gut. But too many times he’d refused to listen, and too many times had others gotten hurt because he refused to trust an instinct.

So Cassian turned around and sent a quick prayer to the Cauldron, hoping no one was hurt, before beating his wings and allowing the winds to sweep him up, bringing him back to Velaris. Back home, to whatever he might find.

***

The return trip was shorter, as if the winds were telling him to  _hurry home._ To what, exactly, he had no clue, but with every pump of his wings he could feel the urgency as the wind pushed him to move faster, faster, until he could see the lights of Velaris on the horizon.

He began with a quick sweep of the city from above, but there was nothing amiss. The shields were in place, the protective spells across the city unbroken…so, why was he called home? Why could he hear crying, sobbing? Cassian landed in the middle of the city, slamming into the earth, and started a second sweep—this time, from land.

It took him two hours in total. And at the end of those two hours, Cassian was questioning why he even bothered to come home. Nothing was attacking the city, there was no need for his presence. With a quick beat of his wings, he was flying again, but this time, to the townhouse.

Hopefully, to Rhys, where answers would await him.

Cassian made it to the townhouse in mere minutes, throwing himself through the door and straight to Rhys’s study, where he pounded and pounded on the door.

No one answered.

“Rhys?” He asked, banging on the door again.

Nothing.

_If he kills me for this, in my defense, we_ could _be in danger_ , Cassian thought, right before he slammed his body onto the door, knocking it off the hinges. It feel with a loud  _thud._

But it was a fruitless effort, because through where the door used to be, there was no one. Not a soul.

Hell, Rhys hadn’t even been in here for a few hours, couldn’t have been, judging by the scent. But was that…was that Nesta’s scent he picked up on, mixed with Rhys’s? Why would she have even bothered to come in here—to  _talk_ to him? They were less than cordial lately. She’d only talk to him if she was absolutely desperate.

If she was in some sort of trouble.

Panic rose within Cassian, his mind racing. The sobs, that he could’ve sworn he still heard echoes of, even now. Her scent.

_If she’s hurt…_

“Cassian, I thought I told you to stop breaking doors,” a voice drawled from the hallway.

He turned, dropping the papers—mostly maps, he realized—from his hands, the panic subsiding a bit.

“Where is she,” he breathed, looking up at Rhys.

“Who?”

“Nesta. She—she was…”

“She was here earlier, yes. Looking for you,” Rhys replied.

_Me?_ He must’ve said the word aloud.

“Yes, you. You’re paying me for a new door, you know that, right?”

Cassian didn’t care. “Is she okay?”

“She seemed…shaken. Fine, but shaken. She’s probably in her room.”

Without a word, Cassian raced out of the office and up the stairs, until he was pounding on her door.

_Nesta._

She was looking for  _him._ Had been, but he’d been gone. Sent away on a mission he’d manipulated Rhys into sending him on, all to forget about her.

But she’d looked for him.

Wanted to—at the very least—say  _something_ to him.  _Find_ him.

Hope fluttered in his chest.

He tried to quiet it, tried to stop himself from hoping that she wanted to see him. Tried to convince himself that this was all a dream, that he was back at the Illyrian camps, and this was one horrible, deluded dream sent by the Cauldron to torture him. To show him the possibility of happiness, the possibility of being  _loved,_  and rip it away.

But he was not dreaming. His hand, quite nearly pounding on the door, were real. The wood was real.

And so he hoped. Let himself hope, let that part of him that he tried desperately to forget bloom. For this. For her.

Nesta didn’t come to the door. He kept knocking, but no one was there, even as her scent, steel and embers and smoke, flowed around him. She was here. And she was probably ignoring him. She likely didn’t want to see him, anyway.

But the voice in his head, hope, begged him not to give up. Not to give up on the female that he loved with all of his heart, his soul. The female that he could never get out of his mind, the female who’s scent seemed to follow him wherever he went.

He hung his shoulders. Tonight had been a waste. There was no danger, no rush to get home. And there was no Nesta. No hope. He had wasted time—time that could’ve been spent handing Devlon’s ass to him.

Hanging his head, shoulders slumped, he crossed the hallway, and started to turn the door.

The scent hit him first. Steel and embers and smoke.

A cruel joke, he thought, a cruel joke for the Mother to pay. For Nesta’s scent to linger in his room.

He opened the door and his eyes went wide.

For there was Nesta.

On his bed.

Crying—no, sobbing—into his pillow.

She looked up, her eyes swollen and ringed with red.

“Cassian?” she breathed, sliding off of the bed and moving towards him, slowly, as if it were a dream, as if he were simply a figment of her imagination.

A tear slid down his cheek.

Reaching him, she threw her arms around his neck, embracing him as tightly as she could. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her, breathing in her scent.

“Ne—Nesta.” He could barely get out her name.

She was here. She was with him.

Nesta sobbed into his chest, her body shaking.

Cassian wasn’t sure it was real.

But it was her. Her scent, her body…her tears. Cassian continued to hold her, until she could cry no more tears, until her body stopped shaking. Nesta allowed him to lift her into his arms, exhaustion written all over her face, and he laid her on his bed. Gently.

He took up the couch in his room, not wanting to disturb her.

Nesta was nearly asleep when she uttered four words. Four words that had Cassian’s ears perking up and his heart beating a little faster. He wasn’t even sure if she realized what she’d said; she’d been fast asleep—or close to it.

“I love you, Cassian.”

His heart fluttered.  _Hope._ It was hope that he felt blooming in his chest, for Nesta.

For the future.


	13. The Rooftop

Nesta dreamed of Cassian.

She dreamed of strong arms holding her throughout the night, wings wrapped around her, keeping her safe. She dreamed of staring into hazel eyes that knew her better than anyone—better than she knew herself, at times.

And when she opened her mouth to speak, breathing a soft  _I love you_ to Cassian, he didn’t speak, not yet, but instead brought his lips to hers. Softly, gently, he kissed her.  _I love you,_ he whispered,  _with all of my heart, my soul, my being. I am yours._ Nesta smiled against him and deepened their kiss, tangling her hands in her hair and pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space between them, until there was no room, no bed holding them. The world faded away until it was only Nesta and Cassian, alone in the universe, hazel eyes boring into those of icy gray.

_I love you, Nesta._ Cassian placed a kiss upon her brow. Each cheek. Her lips.

_Cassian._ She whispered his name over and over, as though she’d found an answer she’d been searching for ever since their first encounter, not so long ago.

She loved him.

She was in love with him.

And he…he loved her, too. She was sure of it.

She had to be.

***

Nesta awoke with a faint smile on her lips.

Her dream…it was simply a dream, she tried to tell herself. Just due to circumstance. She was crying, and upset, and Cassian—he showed up at the right time. She would’ve thrown herself onto anyone who came through that door.

_Liar._

But there was Cassian. And his letter. And her dream. As much as she wanted to deny it, her dream was…well, it was what she wanted, what she needed.

Laying in bed, thinking about the bastard warrior who held her until she stopped crying, until her exhaustion overcame her once and for all, who taunted and teased and took her insults in stride, all to stay in her life—she realized that Cassian was a constant in her life. A friend, someone who stuck by her despite the encroaching darkness threatening to consume her.

But he was so much more than that.

He’d seen so much hatred and darkness come from her and hadn’t run away.  

Cassian wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t so much as hurt her.

Because he loved her as much as she loved him.

His letter undoubtedly proved that, but teasing her, hurling insults back and forth…all of it was for her. To keep her from turning those words onto herself. After any of their most recent incidents, she was so angry with him, so frustrated, that she had no time to even think about herself—about the self-loathing and numbness that would usually plague her.

Cassian loved her, cared for her. Enough to want to protect her from her greatest enemy—herself. And if that meant taking the brunt of her ferocity, then so be it.

Nesta nearly laughed at that. Their game wasn’t such a game after all, it seemed. How she hadn’t seen it sooner—no, she  _refused_ to see the obvious. To admit that she was in love with him, and he her.

The thoughts were still so new.

He loved her.

Cassian was in love with her.

And as she got out of bed, making her way to the bathroom, she noticed a sleeping Cassian on the nearby couch. So she walked to him, hesitantly, making sure he was truly asleep, and then placed a kiss on his brow before going on her way.

Nesta could’ve sworn she saw his lips twitch upwards.

***

After her bath, Nesta found a note waiting for her on the bed.

_Meet me on the roof._

_—C_

Her pulse quickened. He’d just been in here, sleeping, not twenty minutes ago. And now…now, Nesta didn’t know what to think. What to expect when she went to that rooftop.

Which, she quickly decided, she had to do. If she kept thinking, kept going over it, she’d easily convince herself otherwise, and leave him to stay on that rooftop for Cauldron knows how long. She wouldn’t—couldn’t do that to him, not this time.

Not anymore.

So she heaved a breath, trying to calm her nerves as she went to get dressed.

But when she opened the dresser, it wasn’t her clothes she was looking at.

Instead, she found herself staring at a pair of Illyrian leathers that were much, much too big for her. She tried another drawer. Again, her clothes were gone, replaced with male trousers and button-downs.

_What in the…_

Oh.  _Oh, Mother above,_ she thought, dragging a hand through her still-wet tresses,  _I’m in Cassian’s room._

Which meant that—that Cassian had found her here last night, and let her sleep in his bed, while he took the couch.

Nesta decided to deal with that later, shoving it down as she, still in her towel, tip-toed across the hall and into her room. Quickly, she slipped on a gray dress, simple yet still elegant, and swept her hair into a quick bun, not bothering to tame the strands that fell out.

Her hands were shaking, now, as she turned the knob on her door and moved towards the roof of the townhouse. She half hoped he wouldn’t be there by the time she made it up there.

She loved Cassian, but admitting it to herself and admitting it to him were entirely different things. And while she was ready to accept it herself…she wasn’t sure she was ready to tell him, to go down that road. While she suspected—and more or less knew, she supposed—that Cassian loved her, as well, would he truly want to  _be_ with her? To be with someone as broken, as cruel as she had been. As she still was?

Nesta hesitated on the knob to the rooftop, but took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened the door.

***

Cassian was waiting for her, just as his letter had promised.

Instead of his usual flying leathers, though, he was wearing a simple, gray button-down, the shade matching hers, tucked into a darker pair of trousers. His hair was brushed, half pulled back into a bun of sorts, the rest hanging down to his shoulders. Cassian…he looked like he’d  _dressed_ up for the occasion, to Nesta’s surprise. Hell, he even looked as though he tried to match her.

And just to further her shock, he was holding a bouquet of roses.

“I had guessed you’d wear gray today,” Cassian said with a smirk, pointing to her dress, and then his own top.

“You tried to match.”

“Would it be cheesy to say I did?”

“I don’t know,” Nesta replied.

Cassian took a step closer to her, holding out the flowers. Nesta didn’t move. “These are for you,” he said, and placed them in her hands.

“They’re…beautiful. But why, Cassian?”

“You know why.”

He took another step closer.

“I…”

“I wrote you a letter,” he said, again moving closer, until he placed his hands atop hers, “I don’t know if you got it, but…but, I love you, Nesta. I’ve loved you since the day you stared me down in your family’s estate. I’ve loved you with every joke, every taunt, every game we play. I love you.”

A tear slid down Cassian’s cheek.

Nesta spoke softly, so quiet he could barely hear. “I got your letter, Cassian. And…and when I went to talk to you about it, to tell you everything, you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset, so scared that I felt the same, that I ran into my room and threw myself onto the bed, crying. But it was your room. And you—you came back.” Nesta was crying now, silver tears streaming down her face. Cassian moved to wipe one away. “When you came back, I knew. Even before that, I think. I just…I wasn’t ready to admit it. To myself, or to you.”

“And now?”

Nesta threw her arms around him, pulling him as close to her as she could.

“I love you, Cassian,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his.  

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! This series is really special for me and I’m exploring areas of my writing I haven’t before, so I hope you come to like it as much as I do. Comments are always appreciated!


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